


Cooking the Books

by biblionerd07



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Awkwardness, Canonical Character Death, Family, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 16:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2658350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moving home isn't exactly at the top of Bucky's priorities, but he doesn't have much choice after getting pulled into an embezzlement scandal by his boss.  And, because the universe hates him, his childhood best friend, Steve - the one who he hasn't spoken to after a falling out seven years ago, the one he's been in love with his entire life - just moved back, too, and they're only two houses apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cooking the Books

“Bucky.”

He feels hands patting his cheek and he snaps awake instantly, bolting upright, mind racing—Pierce must have made good on his promise, he's sent guys in to silence Bucky and his family and Bucky's hand starts to slip under his pillow for his handgun before he realizes he's looking at his three-year-old nephew.

“What's going on?” He demands, pushing a shaking hand through his hair.

“I have to pee,” Jacob reports solemnly. Bucky lets out a long breath, willing his heart to stop pounding.

“Okay?” He shrugs.

“I need help.”

Bucky groans. “Where's your mom?”

Jacob shrugs his little shoulders. “Don't know.” He's grabbing his crotch now. “I gotta _go_.” Bucky mutters to himself, annoyed, but obligingly drags himself out of bed and follows Jacob down the hall to the bathroom, where Jacob promptly removes every article of clothing he's wearing. The kid's too small to stand and pee, so Bucky has to pick him up and set him on the toilet.

“Done!” Jacob reports with a wide grin that Bucky staunchly refuses to find charming. The kid takes his time before stepping back into his underwear, dancing around and singing and Bucky is so not in the mood for this.

“Jacob, stop,” Bucky barks. “Just put your clothes back on.” That earns him a wounded look and he doesn't even care.

He's forgiven, apparently, once they've both washed their hands, because Jacob slips his hand into Bucky's and says, “Can I have some cereal?”

Bucky sighs and yawns. “Yeah.” He leads the boy down the stairs to the kitchen. Becca's nowhere to be found and Bucky thinks several rude things about her while getting her kid breakfast.

Moving back home to his parents' house was not something Bucky ever wanted to do. It's not like he doesn't love his parents, because he does, but he's twenty-seven and has been out of the house for nine years, so he's not exactly in love with the idea of bumming around like some deadbeat. But, since he actually _is_ some deadbeat, his options are limited. His boss, Alexander Pierce, is being investigated for embezzling, and Bucky was a member of his closest staff, meaning he's been dragged into the investigation, too.

Bucky has no job, his bank account's been frozen, and reporters are hounding him every minute of every day. He'd run out of DC and back to Brooklyn with his proverbial tail between his legs. He hadn't even moved back home after he _lost his arm_ in Afghanistan, because Stark Industries had set him up in some medical trial and he'd lived in Stark Tower for a few months so they could keep tabs on his physical therapy and prosthetic.

His sister Rebecca also lives at home with her two kids—her husband ran out on them right after the younger boy, Luke, was born, and Becca had never finished college and doesn't have a lot in terms of job skills, so she'd moved home to get her feet under her. That was nearly a year ago, and she's still here, living with their parents, with no job, contributing basically nothing to the household and regularly foisting her children off on unsuspecting innocent bystanders.

Not that it bugs Bucky.

Becca comes out, Luke on her hip, after Jacob's second bowl of Lucky Charms and Bucky's third, and she scowls at the cereal box. “Bucky, do you know how much sugar's in there?” She gripes. Bucky shrugs.

“I know he's not my kid, so when he asks for Lucky Charms I give him Lucky Charms.”

Becca purses her lips but obviously can't come up with much of a comeback to that, and Bucky feels a little flash of guilt. It's not like Becca's thrilled about her life situation, either. Her husband, Joe, had been the one who insisted she drop out of college once they got married so they could have kids right away and she could stay home with them, and then he's the one who left. Bucky knows there's a little more to the crimes of Joe Proctor, but Becca's real tight-lipped about it all. Bucky's already vowed to beat the guy's face in if he ever shows it again.

“I have a job interview today.” Becca offers this information almost shyly, obviously proud of herself but wary of Bucky's reaction, and he renews his secret blood feud with his brother-in-law while he grins wide at his little sister.

“That's great, Becks!” He says encouragingly. She ducks her head a little, smiling, and then her look turns apologetic and Bucky fights hard not to roll his eyes, because he suddenly knows what's coming next.

“Mom and Dad are both at work...do you think you could watch the boys? If you take them to the park you really don't have to do much, just make sure they don't fall off the slide.”

Bucky does not want to go out in public. For one thing, Brooklyn isn't exactly a paparazzi-free zone, and there have been a few reporters around yelling questions at him about Pierce. For another, Bucky will feel like an absolute loser taking the kids to the park in the middle of the day, because everyone will know he doesn't have a job. But he's honestly not doing anything else, and this is a good thing for Becca, so he forces a smile and resigns himself to playing Mr. Nanny.

Bucky likes his nephews alright, thinks they're pretty cute sometimes, but in the three weeks he's been back Jacob's grown really attached to him. _Really_ attached. Follows-him-to-the-bathroom attached. It makes Bucky a little snarky and resentful; Becca is perpetually frazzled with Luke, who's newly walking and gets into everything, plus Jacob gets whiny and screams a lot, but Bucky often finds himself thinking darkly that it's not _his_ fault she had two kids before she was ready to deal with them, so why is she always pawning one off on him?

To get to the park, they have to walk past the Rogers' house. They have to walk past the Rogers' house to walk anywhere, because it's the house on the corner of their cul-de-sac. As a child, this was incredibly convenient for Bucky, because Steve Rogers was his best friend in the entire world and only being separated by two other houses was great. Bucky hasn't seen or heard from Steve in seven years, since they stopped talking to each other after a falling out while Bucky was home on leave.

Now, though, facing the house he'd spent almost as much time in as his own as a kid, Bucky wonders about Steve. He knows Steve's mom has cancer; his mom had told him last year about the diagnosis and Bucky's stomach had dropped. Sarah Rogers basically helped raise him, and he peeks guiltily at the kitchen window that overlooks the street. He should drop by and see her. His mom goes over every few days to check in with her and keep her company. Bucky vows to go with her tomorrow.

He's been saying it the whole time he's been home, and he's never done it, and it makes his guts twist with guilt. He can still remember throwing up in Sarah's flowerbed when he was fifteen and drunk for the first time. Sarah had pursed her lips but ushered both Bucky and Steve (who was far worse off than Bucky, seeing as how he weighed under 100 pounds at the time) inside to get cleaned up. As far as Bucky knows, she'd never reneged on her promise not to tell his parents.

They go to the park and Bucky lets Luke eat sand and ignores the dirty look he's getting from other kids' moms or nannies or whoever they are. It's keeping the kid quiet, and it's not like it's going to kill him. Bucky once fed Becca a dollar in quarters and she turned out okay.

After an hour and a half, when the kids Jacob's been playing with have left and Bucky's had to change Luke's diaper—the absolute worst part of babysitting, hands down—he herds them back up the street to the house and plops them in front of the TV until Becca gets home. She glances at the TV a little disapprovingly, but luckily doesn't say anything.

Before Bucky can chicken out again, he squares his shoulders and walks down the street to see Sarah. There's still a wind chime he and Steve made in a community art class when they were eight hanging in front of the front door. He almost changes his mind again when he sees their hand prints in the concrete walkway, a fun treat when they'd gotten new cement when Steve and Bucky were twelve, but he reminds himself sternly that Sarah's all alone in the house and she's sick and he's a terrible chickenshit for not going sooner. He raises his chin and knocks.

“Bucky Barnes,” Sarah says, surprised, when she opens the door.

“Hi,” he replies sheepishly, suddenly feeling like a kid again. She grins and wraps her skinny arms around his neck in a hug that's as tight as he remembers. She's much frailer than she used to be, not that she was ever really a big woman.

“Come in, come in.” She waves him inside and motions to the living room. “I just made some of those peanut butter oatmeal chocolate chip cookies you boys love so much.”

Bucky's mouth waters a little as he remembers those cookies. They were a large part of his childhood. He wonders if she just makes them randomly to remind herself of when her house was noisy from two shouting boys and the occasional tag-along little sister, and then he gets sad.

He sits down while she goes to the kitchen and starts a little when he sees a picture of Steve in an Army uniform. If that's Steve—that's his face, sure, but when did Steve turn into a brick house? Plus, he's got a captain's insignia on his uniform. Bucky enlisted right out of high school and only made it to sergeant in his six years.

Sarah comes back with a plate full of cookies and a smile, though Bucky can see dark circles under her eyes he doesn't like. He takes a cookie with a grin and just barely manages not to make an embarrassing sound as he bites into it. It's better than he remembers. Once he gets himself under control, he tips his head toward the picture.

“Steve joined the Army?” He asks. Sarah's brow wrinkles slightly.

“He didn't tell you?” She bites her lip, realizing that question's a bit awkward. “I mean, I know you boys aren't close anymore, but that happened before—well, when you boys were still in touch. Just the year after you joined up.”

“He didn't tell me.” Bucky's mouth feels dry. They were still talking then; he got and wrote a letter a week to Steve when he was in boot camp, and once he got his phone back at the end of Basic they'd had weekly phone calls. “I thought he went to college?”

“He did,” Sarah says slowly. “He went to West Point.” She's staring at him a little, like she can tell he's freaking out. He knows he doesn't know anything about Steve now, but back then—he and Steve practically shared a brain. How could Steve have kept this from him?

“Oh,” he manages to murmur. Bucky doesn't know why this is bugging him so much—it was almost a decade ago, for one thing, and for another, what does it matter now? They're not even friends anymore. So what if Steve lied to him back when they were best friends? When they were...something.

“He sure grew up, huh?” Bucky jokes weakly. Sarah's smile goes soft and fond as they both remember what a little runt Steve had been.

“He grew out of his asthma, too,” she explains. “Though I think he might've lied about it to get in, anyway.”

“Course he did.” Bucky shakes his head. That would be a very Steve thing to do.

“He threw himself very hard into training when you left,” Sarah tells him softly. “He was determined to join you out there.”

Bucky looks down at his lap, a little lump in his throat now as he looks at his metal fingers twisting around his flesh ones. “Probably best he didn't,” he hears himself say bitterly before he really thinks about it. He swallows hard. “All my guys—the others.” He licks his lips quickly, thinking of Taps and folded flags and the smell of his friends' blood. “Well.”

“Your mom told me.” Sarah puts a hand on his arm and it's just like a thousand scenes from his childhood. “It wasn't your fault.”

Bucky's eyes are stinging now and he has to change the subject or he's going to fly apart into a million pieces. “How are you feeling?” He forces himself to look up into her face. The answer, he can tell, is not great, but he asks anyway.

“I'm dying, Bucky,” she says gently. He blinks at her. “I'm terminal. I've stopped the treatments and I've only got a few months to live, now.”

“But you look fine,” Bucky blurts. “A little tired, a little thin, but—but if you were dying you'd look way worse. You're...you're fine.”

Sarah has tears springing into her eyes now. “I look alright and I feel alright because I've stopped the treatments. But the tumors are getting bigger. I don't have much time left.”

Bucky can feel tears pooling in his own eyes, hot and thick. “No,” he chokes out. “That's not fair.”

Sarah laughs a little and takes his hand in both of hers—it's the metal one, and normally he'd jerk it away but she can't reach his flesh hand and he's not going to pull away from her. “I know,” she says simply. “Eat another cookie.”

Bucky does, mostly because he doesn't know what else to do, and then he swipes angrily at the tears in his eyes. “Does Steve know?”

“He's coming home.” She nods. “Tomorrow, actually.”

Bucky has no idea how to respond to that, can't even process that information because he's still reeling from the other revelation. He doesn't stay much longer after that, awkwardly making excuses for why he has to leave, but Sarah hugs him tight again and thanks him for stopping by.

Bucky's mom is home when he walks in the door. “Where were you?” She asks, taking in his dazed face.

“I, uh. I went to see Sarah.”

Winifred's face changes instantly from curiosity to concern. “Oh, Bucky,” she murmurs. “I wish I could've warned you first.”

“I'm gonna go up to my room,” he mumbles. His mother watches him go with a sad look on her face, but he doesn't know what else either of them could say. At the top of the stairs he pauses for a second as he realizes Sarah Rogers is probably his mom's best friend. He closes his eyes and decides not to think about it anymore.

 

It's not like Bucky spends the whole next day peeking out his window toward Steve's house. He might twitch the curtains aside once or twice. Maybe three times. But he's not _watching_.

“What are you doing?” Jacob's voice cuts the silence and Bucky jumps.

“Nothing. Why are you in here?”

“Wanna play basketball with me?” Jacob adds a little smile like that'll sweeten the offer. But just then, a motorcycle turns down the street and stops in front of Steve's house and Bucky's heart starts hammering. Steve steps off and Bucky's stomach actually physically aches at the sight of him. He's never seen Steve look like this, all tall and filled out and, quite honestly, _ripped_. Steve was always Bucky's skinny little punk, his mouth too big for his body to back up, getting them both in too many fights. And the asshole isn't even wearing a helmet—it's just the kind of thing Steve would do, and it makes Bucky want to march down there and yell at him.

Steve spares a second to glance toward the Barnes house, and Bucky shrinks from the window like Steve's new body came with laser-vision. Bucky can't make out the expression on Steve's face, but he turns away and goes inside quickly. Bucky stares at his motorcycle for a long time. Of course Steve would have a motorcycle. They're noisy and reckless, right up Steve's alley.

“You don't wanna play?” Jacob pouts and Bucky makes a face at him. He can't focus on a three-year-old when Steve just rode up on a motorcycle. _Steve_. He used to be Bucky's best friend. He was Bucky's—well. Everything, really. Steve was Bucky's whole world for the first 20 years of his life.

Really, if Bucky's being honest, he's still sort of a large part of it.

It's two more days of Bucky hiding and sulking a little and peeking out the window before Steve marches out his front door and down the street, his chin jutting in that familiar stubborn stance, and Bucky's suddenly aware of the fact that he's in his pajamas at two in the afternoon and he hasn't shaved in four days. When they were seventeen, it took Steve exactly four minutes to get from his house to Bucky's, and now that his legs are about four feet long and three feet wide, it'll probably be half that.

Bucky throws clothes out of his still-not-unpacked suitcase in a desperate search for his black skinny jeans that show off his ass and has just managed to wriggle into them when he hears the firm _rap rap rap_ of Steve's knock. Bucky's going to puke. He tugs a blue sweater over his head because he's not above showing off his blue eyes.

“Bucky!” Winifred calls up the stairs. “Steve's here!”

Jesus, this could be ten years ago.

Bucky shoves at his hair, too long and a bit tangled, and takes three slow breaths so he can slap on a lazy smirk as he meanders down the stairs. Of _course_ Steve came over first. Steve's always been the braver of the two.

Bucky means to toss out a nonchalant, “Hey, Stevie,” when he gets to the bottom of the stairs, but he can't. His throat clogs up when he sees Steve's face, that same jaw he remembers, that high forehead and straight nose. Steve's body may be new, but that's still Bucky's Steve looking up at him. Bucky swallows hard.

“Hi,” he says, a touch breathlessly.

“Buck.” Steve sounds as winded as Bucky feels. They just sort of stare at each other for a minute, Bucky still standing on the second-to-last stair, Steve leaning against the door frame.

“Come in, Steve!” Winifred insists, and Bucky snaps out of his daze enough to get the rest of the way down the stairs.

“Buh buh buh!” Luke comes tearing out to see who's in the house and latches onto Bucky's leg. Steve's eyes go wide and he looks back and forth between Bucky and Luke. Bucky feels his own eyes go wide and he shakes his head vigorously.

“No!” He protests. “Nuh-uh. Becca's.”

“Oh.” Steve's lips twitch upward a little, but Bucky knows Steve's face well enough, even after all this time, to see the relief there, and it floods Bucky's stomach with something that feels distinctly wriggly.

Becca comes out and exclaims over Steve and how much he's grown, and Steve puts his foot in it like he always does and says, “Oh, Becca, I didn't know you got married!”

“Yeah, well, didn't last long.” Becca forces out a smile and Steve immediately gets that familiar panicked _oh shit_ look Bucky used to love so much.

Winifred ushers everyone into the living room to sit down and Bucky ends up on the loveseat, pressed up thigh-to-thigh with Steve, and his heart's hammering around in his chest. Bucky's parents gush about Steve growing up so handsome and ask him about his plans now that's out of the Army, which reminds Bucky—Steve _lied_ to him.

Finally, everyone else clears out and Bucky and Steve are still wedged on the loveseat, two grown men uncomfortable in a space that used to be wholeheartedly theirs. Bucky wants to move, to sit on the couch across the coffee table, but he doesn't want Steve to think he's uncomfortable. Steve looks equally unsure, but is also equally stubborn, so they stay there, legs pressing together and not looking each other in the eye.

“Army, huh? Your mom told me you went to West Point.” Bucky can't keep the edge out of his voice and Steve coughs nervously.

“Yeah.”

They fall quiet again and Bucky kind of wants to punch Steve in the face. Steve had tried to talk Bucky into going to West Point, or at least going to college and doing ROTC before enlisting, but Bucky hadn't listened. Now he's glad, because apparently it was Steve's dream all along.

“What happened to you?” Bucky all but snarls. “Thought you were smaller.”

“I joined the Army,” Steve snips back. Bucky can't take it anymore, can't sit here on the couch like they used to when everything was bright and happy when everything's the worst now. He pushes up off the couch just as Steve says, “Embezzlement, huh?” in the same tone Bucky just used to bring up the Army.

Bucky snaps his head around to glare at Steve. “You don't know fuck all about what's going on in my life.”

“Oh, I know.” Steve stares down at his hands for a second and Bucky remembers, with a hand squeezing around his heart, that Steve's mom is going to die soon.

“How's your mom?” Bucky asks, softer. Steve sighs and shakes his head.

“I wanted—she's not doing treatments anymore. She's decided that. She's real firm about it.”  
  
Bucky doesn't have to ask to know Steve wants her to keep doing it. Bucky doesn't blame him. “Well,” he says, and then doesn't have anything to follow it up with.

“Yeah.” Steve laughs a little, the kind of laugh a person laughs when they're uncomfortable and don't know what else to say. It's the strangest thing, Steve sitting here on his couch and the two of them with no idea how to say anything.

Steve stands up. “I'm gonna go,” he murmurs, not looking at Bucky.

“Okay,” Bucky says.

“I don't know if I'll be back, honestly.”

“Okay,” Bucky repeats.

“But just—” Steve rubs the back of his neck. “Don't think you can't come see Ma just 'cause I'm there, alright? She, uh. She'd love for you to come visit.”

Bucky doesn't want to say _okay_ for a third time so he just nods. Steve lets himself out, quietly, and Bucky goes upstairs to his room and flops down onto his bed and doesn't move or think for a long, long time.

 

Bucky actually gets up and showers and shaves and puts on real clothes, something he hasn't done in almost the entire month he's been home, and goes downstairs to find some food. His mother is standing in the kitchen, writing things down and muttering to herself. Her free hand is fluttering anxiously.

“What's up?” Bucky asks, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head as he passes. Winifred sighs.

“Just sort of a hectic day,” she tells him. “I'm only supposed to work Monday through Wednesday, that's the _agreement_ , but Barry can't tell his ass from a teapot so I've got to go in and help him, but I _have_ to go grocery shopping and your father just _can't_ get to the dry cleaners today but _needs_ his good blue suit and my car's making that _noise_ again—” She throws her hands up in exasperation.

“I can help, Ma.” Bucky's mouth is full as he says it but his mom's too distracted to give him a dirty look. Or maybe she's finally given up on trying to teach him manners after 27 years.

“Oh, Bucky, would you?” She flashes him a grin and Bucky wrinkles his nose. He thinks he just got played.

“I can look at your car now, 'fore you gotta go.” Bucky looks a little dejectedly at the rest of his Lucky Charms. _Farewell_ , he thinks. “And then I'll take the train to the dry cleaners, if you can swing by the grocery store on your way home.”

Winifred gives him a sharp look. “The train? Is that a good idea?” Bucky bites his lip. They're brushing dangerously close to a subject they've never openly talked about, namely, Bucky's PTSD. It's only been three years since Bucky lost his arm and three men to a car bomb. He doesn't do great with enclosed spaces. He still doesn't sleep, and his room is directly above his parents', so he knows they hear him sometimes.

Bucky shrugs at her as he slips into his shoes. “Guess we'll find out,” he tosses flippantly over his shoulder. He clenches his flesh hand so his mom won't see it shaking. He forces himself not to think about anything other than her car as he looks at it, but after a few minutes he feels the prickle on the back of his neck that means he's being watched. He glances around casually, his heart starting to pick up, Pierce's voice ringing threats in his ears.

He's suddenly gasping for air, dropping all sense of calm to search every inch of the car for some kind of tracking devise or bomb. He pictures his mother getting in her car and the car exploding, her skin—

“Buck?” Steve is inexplicably beside him, concern all over his stupidly large face, and Bucky realizes he's having a panic attack in the middle of his driveway, halfway under his mother's car. Steve tugs him out and leans him against the tire, squeezing his shoulder to ground him.

“Breathe,” Steve says soothingly. “Just breathe easy.” Bucky used to say that to him during asthma attacks. The darkness around his vision retracts a little and he takes deep, shuddering breaths.

“'m fine,” he tries to protest. Steve gives him a look that says he sees straight through Bucky's bullshit.

“What happened?” Steve suddenly sounds like a captain. Bucky covers his face with his hands and shakes his head.

“I'm just—I thought—if there was a bomb, on the car, and my ma, well...” Bucky has to bite down on his lip, focusing on the pain to block out the mental images. Steve nods and doesn't say anything, but he moves around to the other side of the car and starts feeling around. Bucky just stares.

“All clear on this side,” Steve reports. Bucky gives him a hard look.

“You don't have to humor me,” he says harshly. Steve purses his lips.

“I'm not.”

“You don't really think there could be a bomb. But you saw me freaking out. So, you looking is just humoring me.” Bucky pushes a hand through his hair.

“I'm just trying to set your mind at ease,” Steve argues.

Before Bucky can say anything else, his mother comes out and looks at them worriedly. “What's going on?” She asks. “Bucky, you're so pale.”

“I'm fine, Ma.” He shoots Steve a little glare to keep him quiet. She clucks at him.

“You think I was born yesterday? Get back in the house. I'll call Barry and tell him I'm not coming in today.”

“ _Ma_ ,” Bucky spits. “No. I'm not a goddamn kid! I'm _fine_.” He's shaking so hard he hits his head on the side of the car. “I said I'd help you.” He sounds as petulant as the kid he'd just proclaimed not to be.

“James Buchanan Barnes, I don't—”

“Winifred, Winifred,” Steve holds his hands up placatingly. “I'll go with Bucky for whatever he's gonna do. We can take my bike.”

“No,” Bucky says flatly.

“Yes,” Winifred counters. “Steve goes with you or I call Barry right now.”

“You should be with your mom,” Bucky tries one last avenue.

“She can handle an afternoon on her own,” Steve says, raising an eyebrow at Bucky's low blow. Bucky doesn't even verbally agree, just crosses his arms and looks away, and both his mother and Steve know him well enough to know that's as gracious as he's going to get.

But then Winifred's starting to get in the car and Bucky's heart plummets again because _what if what if what if_ and he's gasping out, “No, no, no, don't take your car—please, Ma, no.”

“Bucky?” She asks, bewildered, and Steve grabs Bucky's elbow, tight as a vise, and forces Bucky to look up into his eyes.

“We checked, Buck. Remember? We checked it over. It's safe.”

“Didn't check the interior,” Bucky mutters. So Winifred, confused as she is, waits while Bucky combs through her car, every seat and every nook and cranny explored. He won't let Steve help because the tight band in his chest that squeezes his heart when he thinks of his mother and a bomb doesn't ease up when he thinks of Steve and a bomb and Steve can set his jaw all he wants but Bucky's not giving in.

“You talk to Dad since he got to work?” Bucky presses. His mother's lips are a tight, thin line now, and he hates that he's scaring her, but he's jittering and won't stop until he knows the cars are okay. He didn't check his father's car. What kind of son is he?

“Yes,” Winifred assures him softly. “He called me from the office.”

Bucky blows out a breath. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I'm sorry. Alright.”

Winifred puts her hands on either side of his face and presses, like she's trying to squeeze his brain. “I love you,” she murmurs, kissing his forehead.

Bucky only has to check on Becca and the kids once before he relents and is ready to go with Steve. It's a little humiliating, in a way, to hang on to the back of Steve's bike. It's not like he isn't enjoying it, necessarily, bracketing Steve's body with his own and anytime up to seven years ago, before everything went to hell, he would've been giddy with it. As it is, Bucky and Steve aren't even friends anymore and he's just had a panic attack and war flashbacks and now he's trying his hardest to hold onto Steve while keeping his hands to himself.

He wants to take a nap.

They pick up the dry cleaning and because Steve is Steve he stops at a cafe and insists they order scones like they're sixteen and high with the new freedom of Bucky's driver's license. Bucky picks at his scone and doesn't want to look at Steve, but it's not exactly an easy task.

“When I heard what happened to you over there,” Steve starts quietly, picking apart his own scone. “I wanted to see you so bad. Rush to the hospital. Make sure you were okay.”

Bucky stares down at the tabletop. “Why didn't you?” He asks, voice heavy.

“Well, I was in Iraq, for one thing. But mostly...I didn't think you'd want me to,” Steve admits.

Bucky doesn't say anything else and soon they leave. When Bucky's swinging his leg off Steve's bike, arms full of his parents' dry cleaning, he looks at Steve for a minute and mumbles,

“I wanted you to.”

 

For the next three weeks, Bucky is not very distinguishable from a bump on a log, as his mom used to say. He sleeps too much, and he knows it's contributing to his melancholy, but getting out of bed seems pointless. He has no job. Why should he bother?

He still makes himself run every day, because he has to keep in decent shape to keep his arm from hurting too badly. He only runs with a knife at his ankle, because he doesn't have a concealed carry permit in New York and even though knives technically count, he figures he's more likely to get away with having a knife on him than his Glock.

Other than running, he doesn't leave the house. He checks both his parents' cars each morning before either of them go to work, making sure to do it early enough that they won't see him doing it. He thinks his system's going great, but one morning he's slipping back inside and his father's waiting for him in the kitchen.

“James,” George murmurs. Bucky's dad's always been one of the only people to call him by his actual name. “What are you doing?”

Bucky swallows hard. “I was, uh. I couldn't sleep. I just went for a run.”

George raises an eyebrow at Bucky's “running” attire—pajama bottoms with Spongebob Squarepants on them and a pair of Hobbit-feet slippers. Bucky had held off wearing his Hobbit slippers for a long time, because he and Steve bought matching pairs together, but his feet kept getting cold. George gives him a long look.

“Weren't you going to a therapist when you first got back?”

Bucky grunts noncommittally. Pepper Potts, who helped him with getting the prosthetic and dealing with Tony Stark, had pretty much forced therapy upon him while he was living there, but after his few months of observation were up, he'd given up the therapist, too. Pierce had swooped in and offered him a job soon after, and he'd talked a lot about how Bucky was fine and didn't need any help.

Pierce was wrong, but Bucky hadn't wanted to screw up his chances at an amazing job with the goddamn Secretary of Defense, especially considering how woefully under-qualified he was for the job. Now, of course, he realizes his real job was as Pierce's fall guy, and he'd been plenty qualified for that.

“Things are different now,” George muses. “You can get real help now.” George was drafted in Vietnam, but had only been on the ground two weeks when the war was over and everyone was sent home. His eyes had gone hard when Bucky had told his parents he was enlisting, headstrong and feeling invincible because he was eighteen.

“I'm fine, Dad,” Bucky insists.

“You don't just get over what happened to you,” George says quietly. “And that's okay.”

Bucky takes a deep breath. “Yeah, okay.” He gives his father a cheeky salute. “I'm going upstairs.”

Bucky feels unsettled for the rest of the day, and he keeps glancing out his window toward Steve's house. He hasn't been back to see Sarah, even though he'd said he would, and he feels bad about it, but he just can't seem to muster up the energy.

He's lying in the middle of his bed, feeling bad for himself and bad _about_ himself, when Jacob comes in and crawls up onto the bed, curling into Bucky's side.

“Bucky, are you sad?”

“Nah, kid, I'm alright.” If he's ever felt justified lying to someone, it's to a three-year-old about his mental state.

“You look kind of sad,” Jacob counters. “Like Mama looks sometimes.”

Bucky winces. “Mama gets sad, huh?”

Jacob nods solemnly. “Sometimes she gets sad but it's not my fault.” He sounds like he's parroting something he's been told a million times and Bucky suddenly remembers Steve, no older than six or seven, telling him conspiratorially that his mom still got sad and missed his dad but it didn't mean she didn't love Steve.

Bucky puts an arm around Jacob and lets the little boy snuggle up closer to him, even drops a kiss into his soft hair that smells like baby shampoo. “It's not your fault,” he confirms. “Your mama loves you a lot.”

“Do you love me?” Jacob asks, and Bucky laughs a little but kind of wants to cry.

“Yeah, kid, I love you.”

He goes to see Sarah, because he's a bad enough person without adding to it. Steve answers and Bucky bites his lip.

“I came to see your mom,” Bucky tells the welcome mat.

“She's not here,” Steve informs the crown of Bucky's head. “She went out with her cancer group.”

“Is that allowed?” Bucky blurts. “Shouldn't she be in bed?”

Steve shrugs. “Since when have I been able to tell her what to do?” He's joking, but there's a hard edge underneath. “It's nice she has friends,” he adds, more sincerely.

“Well. Alright.” Bucky turns to go but Steve stops him with a hand on his arm.

“You want to come in?” Steve offers. “Have a drink?”

Bucky opens his mouth to say no, come up with some excuse to leave, but he notices the flash in Steve's eyes—loneliness, hurt, fear—and can't do it, so he shrugs and steps forward.

They sit in the kitchen, because they'd both been banned from liquids on Sarah's couches about a decade and a half ago and old habits die hard. Steve hands him a beer and Bucky tries not to think about what a therapist would say about cracking one at eleven am.

Steve's doing it too, so.

For a while it's awkward, and Bucky's stomach hurts a little because he misses how easy everything used to be. Steve must be thinking the same thing, because he sighs a little.

“Remember Lindsey Worthington?” Bucky blurts. Steve raises an eyebrow. “She still lives around here. Saw her at Starbucks.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve makes a considering face. “What's she up to?”

“No idea.” Bucky shrugs. “She was all over me, though.”

Steve snorts. “Some things don't change, huh?” When they were in high school, Steve had taken Lindsey on a few dates. At the end of the third one, she'd asked if he could give Bucky her number. Steve had been crushed and Bucky had been furious. “You get her number?”

“Hell no,” Bucky says before he really stops to think. “Not after what she did to you.”

A blush colors Steve's cheeks and he ducks his head. “Been a long time.”

“Well.” Bucky bites his lip. “Didn't do it then, ain't gonna do it now.”

There's a little smile tugging at Steve's lips and it makes something warm fill up Bucky's stomach. “Thanks,” Steve murmurs.

It's quiet again, but a little less awkward now. Steve keeps peeking up from under his lashes and then back down at his hands and it's making Bucky laugh a little. It's been a long time, but he knows this little game means Steve's struggling with something he wants to say.

“Spit it out,” Bucky orders, then decides to press his luck and adds, “I mean, if you want to, _Captain_.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Don't call me that,” he mutters. “Not in the Army anymore.”

“Why...” Bucky stops, shakes his head. “Doesn't matter.”

“Why didn't I tell you?” Steve guesses. He sighs and chuckles a little, ruefully. “I, uh. I had this big plan. I was going to join the Army and not say anything and then just surprise you. Show up wherever you were stationed. Maybe bail you out if you were captured or something. So I didn't tell you because I wanted it to be a surprise.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and Bucky can't help it—he starts to laugh.

“That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.”

Steve makes a face. “I was just a kid,” he protests without any heat. “I was thinking of telling you that last time you came home for leave.” They both look away at the mention of that week. Bucky can't talk about that, can't think about waking up happy to find an empty bed, Steve gone and never to be heard from again. He forces a weak smile.

“You got out okay, though, right? Not hurt?” Bucky looks over what he can see of Steve and he seems to be all there. _And then some_ , his mind adds. Steve looks down at his feet and Bucky gets a little worried.

“I got medical discharge,” Steve admits softly.

“Stevie?” The nickname slips out unconsciously.

“We just, uh. There was a small IED. Didn't really even hurt anyone. But I knocked my head pretty hard on the ground. I was out for two days. And you know, they're scaling back now, so. Plus I sorta—well. I had a hard time after that.” He takes a drink and shrugs.

“You were in a coma?” Bucky asks, voice going funny. Steve swallows hard. He's trying to play nonchalant but Bucky can see it shook him up. He wonders what kind of _hard time_ Steve had.

“I didn't tell my mom,” Steve confesses. “I told her I just got out because I wanted to. Not that I wasn't ready to get out—I think I really, really was. But I didn't tell her about the coma.”

“Steve,” Bucky chides.

“She has _cancer_ , Buck. And I'm fine now. It's not a big deal.”

Bucky thinks of Steve lying in a hospital bed and his guts feel all twisted up. He wonders if anyone sat by Steve's bed, holding his hand, and he hurts a little because he's sure no one did. He knows how Army medical works.

“Does your arm hurt?” Steve asks quietly, almost shyly, and Bucky knows that's what he was warring over earlier.

“Nah.” Bucky shrugs carelessly and Steve gives him a look. “Really, it doesn't. Sometimes it's sorta—you heard of phantom pains? It's sort of like that but it doesn't really hurt. More like itches sometimes. It's not so bad with the prosthetic. Stark Tech, you know.”

“I heard Stark was doing prosthetics now instead of weapons,” Steve nods. “So you met Tony?”

“You know him?” Bucky didn't miss the first-name. Steve makes a face.

“Sorta. Met him a few times at different benefits and stuff. He's not so bad once you get to know him.”

Bucky doesn't say anything. Tony had driven him up the wall every time he'd checked Bucky's arm, but he was better than some of the doctors who talked about Bucky like he wasn't sitting right there, attached to the metal appendage they were moving around.

“How far up does it go?” Steve asks, eyes on Bucky's sleeve.

“All the way to my shoulder.” Bucky hesitates. “It's pretty bad up there. That hurts sometimes.”

Steve leans forward and taps Bucky's shoulder, but not high enough to find skin. His eyes widen at the feel of metal under his knuckles. Bucky grabs his wrist and guides it higher, to the seam where metal and flesh meet.

Steve's not looking at his shoulder. He's looking right into Bucky's eyes and they're so close and Bucky can hear Steve's breathing pick up a little and Bucky's eyes flick down to Steve's lips without his brain's permission and Steve sucks in a breath and Bucky can't stop remembering what Steve's lips feel like on his and then Steve's leaning in and...

“Hi!” Sarah calls, the front door swinging open. Steve jumps back and Bucky swears in shock.

“We're—” Steve has to clear his throat. “Kitchen.”

“Oh, hi, Bucky!” Sarah seems in high spirits after spending time with her friends, though she looks even thinner than last time Bucky was here and his brow wrinkles a little in worry. Steve catches it and nods a little and then they both quickly look away.

Bucky stays for a few more minutes, talking to Sarah, avoiding Steve's eye, and then says he needs to get home for dinner. It's an automatic excuse when sitting in the Rogers' kitchen, because that used to be a real reason he had to leave. Sarah gives him a weird look but doesn't say anything and Bucky realizes as he walks home that it's not even noon and dinner was a terrible excuse.

 

Bucky has to go to Stark Tower for a yearly exam on his arm, and he's not looking forward to it one bit. For one thing, he has to take the train, which he hates, and for another, Manhattan is going to be crawling with reporters. It's going to be hard to avoid questions about Pierce.

“Do you want me to drive you?” His mom offers. Bucky wants to hit his head against the wall. He's a twenty-seven-year-old war vet and he might have to have his mother drive him to an appointment. It's humiliating is what it is.

“I can take the train, Ma.” Bucky refuses the urge to roll his eyes and further drop himself into teenager territory.

“I worry about you on the train,” his mom fusses and even smooths his hair down and he backs away quickly. This is getting worse and worse.

“ _Mother_ ,” he admonishes. “I'm twenty-seven.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I'm a grown man!”

“I know you are, sweetie.”

Bucky stuffs his hands in his pockets as he walks to the train station. And of course at the station, leaning against a wall, is Steve. Because why wouldn't he be?

“Hey.” Steve grins at him and Bucky can't help his answering smile.

“What are you doing?”

“I have to go into the city for an appointment with my therapist and my mom gets nervous about the bike with all that traffic.” Steve rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “You going to pick up more dry cleaning?”

“She should be nervous; you don't even wear a helmet.” Bucky elbows him. “Getting my arm checked out.”

“Why? Is something wrong?” Steve switches into worry mode so quickly it gives Bucky butterflies. It's been so long since he's seen that wrinkle in Steve's forehead for himself.

“Nah, just a yearly thing. Make sure it's not ripping my spine out.” Bucky realizes he shouldn't joke about that with someone who doesn't know all the specifics, because Steve looks horrified.

“Can that happen?” His voice comes out high and Bucky can't help his snort of laughter.

“No, that can't happen.” Bucky shakes his head. “My spine is safe.”

“That wasn't funny,” Steve informs him.

“It was a little funny.”

They ride the train together, which is an immense relief. If Bucky can focus on keeping his cool in front of Steve, he doesn't have to focus on all the people around who could be carrying explosives. Just before his stop, Steve pulls out his phone.

“You got my number? We should meet up after and do something. See a movie or something?”

The little voice in the back of Bucky's head tells him to make an excuse, don't do it, stay free and clear of Steve, or he's going to end up sorry again, waking up with the pillow next to him empty but for his confusion and heartbreak. But Steve's standing right there, that familiar hopeful grin on his face, and Bucky can't possibly say no.

Bucky's appointment is routine; Stark babbles about engineering things Bucky doesn't understand and makes pop culture references Bucky doesn't catch.

“Did you live under a rock for the last decade or something? Have strict religious parents who didn't let you watch TV?” Stark asks as he pokes Bucky in the side with a screwdriver.

“I was in the desert,” Bucky reminds him, rolling his eyes. “At war.”

“So, what, no satellite TV out there? I should fund that. Entertain our soldiers. The public eats that shit up.”

Bucky doesn't know what to say to that, so he just shrugs. All the TV in the world won't make up for why they're out there or the things they'll see on patrol. It won't be the images of the TV that burn against their closed eyelids.

Bucky meets Steve at his therapist's office, against his better judgment. Steve comes out from the back area laughing and talking to another guy Bucky immediately can tell is military and wonders if it was some kind of group session.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve greets him warmly and makes Bucky's stomach flip.

“Oh, this is the Bucky I've heard so much about?” The guy asks. Steve immediately blushes and Bucky feels a little flustered himself. Steve talks about him?

“Buck, this is Sam, my therapist. Sam, this is Bucky.”

“You're a therapist?” Bucky blurts out. Sam laughs a little.

“I don't fit your idea of a therapist?” He guesses.

“Well...” Bucky shrugs sheepishly. He thought most therapists were severe-looking women with wire-rimmed glasses and hair in a tight knot at the base of their skulls.

“I got out of the Air Force and needed to do something to give back,” Sam tells him.

“Yeah, and he was good at talking about his feelings already because that's all they do in the Air Force,” Steve scoffs and Bucky laughs.

“All that free time from doing nothing,” Bucky agrees.

“You too?” Sam looks wounded. “Man can't get no respect.”

“Not an Air Force man,” Bucky agrees and Sam gives him the finger. Steve claps a hand on Bucky's shoulder as he laughs and Bucky grins.

“Get out of my office,” Sam commands them, and they leave giggling like they're kids again. They ditch the movie idea after Bucky, stammering, admits that he has a hard time with movies because they're loud and bright and the only thing they'd want to see would probably include explosions. He hurriedly suggests they get something to eat before Steve sinks too deeply into his sad face.

It's so surreal to be sitting across a booth from Steve, both of them eating burgers and drinking milkshakes. It could be ten years ago. It could be any point in their teenage years, really. This used to be Bucky's _life_ —didn't matter where they were, what they were doing, but his life was Steve across from him or beside him, nose wrinkled in laughter.

“You seeing anyone?” Steve asks, kind of out of left field because they'd been talking about the desert and why does Steve want to know that anyway? Bucky thinks about seven years ago in his bed and two days ago in Steve's kitchen, thinks about the way Steve was leaning in and wonders what would've happened if Sarah hadn't come home.

“Wh—uh, no.” Bucky runs a hand through his hair awkwardly.

“Sorry.” Steve turns bright red. “I meant—a therapist. Are you seeing anyone about your nightmares and stuff.”

Bucky forces out a laugh. Right. “Still no.” He bites his lip. “Who said I have nightmares?”

Steve rolls his eyes so hard they might fall out of his head. “Don't even start with me.”

Bucky throws a fry at him. “Alright, smart ass, calm down.”

Steve throws a fry back. “You could see Sam,” he suggests, his eyes getting all earnest like they do when he wants to help someone. Bucky sighs.

“I think I'm past the point of therapy helping me.”

Steve shakes his head, so vigorous his hair would've flopped into his eyes if he still had his high school haircut instead of a regulation buzz. “No one is, Buck. Really. And Sam's great, I promise. Or if you don't want to see an Air Force guy, he knows plenty of other—”

“Can you just drop it?” Bucky's voice comes out a little more harshly than he'd meant it to and Steve snaps his mouth closed. They both look down at their plates.

“Just think about it.” Steve, the stubborn little shit, has to get the last word and Bucky exhales loudly. “Okay, okay, I'm dropping it.” Steve holds up his hands in surrender.

Bucky should have known such a good day couldn't last. The next morning, he has the news on while he's eating breakfast. He doesn't watch the news much, since a lot of the time they're speculating about if he's a rotten thief, but he wants to know if Pierce is locked up or still roaming the streets.

“And we have some insider scoop on Pierce's staff member James Barnes,” the anchor says. Bucky's head snaps up to stare at the screen. “This call came in yesterday.”

To Bucky's horror, Steve's voice starts up. “I'm Steve Rogers, and I've known Bu—James Barnes since we were both in diapers. There's no way he'd do something like this. He's honest and loyal and hardworking, and beside all that, he's a war hero. He's sacrificed himself for the American people. He wouldn't steal from them.”

Bucky's going to throw up. Why would Steve do this? It's bad enough that Pierce knows where Bucky's family lives; now he's going to send someone after Steve, too.

“But what about the invoices with Barnes' signature on them?” A skeptical sounding reporter asks.

“He was doing his job, but he didn't know anything was dishonest about it. I'm sure of it. The real criminal here is Alexander Pierce. Bucky's just as much a victim here as the tax payers.”

The screen cuts back to the morning anchors. “Well, there's something new to consider.”

Bucky practically throws his bowl in the sink and slams the door behind him. The cool spring morning should calm him down, but his blood's boiling. How could Steve be so stupid? He pounds on the door and Steve opens it, looking confused.

“Buck?”

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking? Why did you talk to the press?” Bucky snarls.

“I just wanted—”

“You just wanted to make yourself a target? Christ, Steve, you think the best of everyone and I'm sure that's working out real great for you and all, but you shouldn't stick your nose where you don't have the first clue what's going on.” Bucky's breathing too hard, so angry and scared he could scream. Steve's face goes hard.

“What are you saying? I don't know what's going on—are you saying you _did_ know what Pierce was doing?”

“Steve, there is so much going on here you don't—”

“Buck, did you do it?” Steve sounds so wounded it makes Bucky angrier.

“What the fuck do you care?” He spits. “You gonna disappear on me again?”

Steve's face gets splotchy when his blush is angry instead of embarrassed. “Oh, you want to talk about this now? _You're_ the one who—”

“You're the one who left!” Bucky screams. “You said you wanted it as much as I did, you said you _loved_ me, and I woke up alone, Steve! I even _called_ you, just hoping I was wrong about why you were gone and I never heard from you again. Message received.”

“It wasn't—it was complicated, Buck, I—”

Bucky shakes his head and turns to leave. “I knew this would happen if I let my guard down again.”

“Bucky!” Steve calls after him. Bucky stops but doesn't turn around, unable to leave without at least warning Steve. He doesn't want anything to happen to Sarah.

“Be careful, Steve. Pierce is a dangerous guy and he's got connections.” He doesn't wait for a response before trudging home, and Steve doesn't yell after him again.

 

Bucky keeps slipping out every morning to check his parents' cars and, while he's out there, always glances over toward Steve's house. Just to see if any shadowy figures are hanging around. It's not like any guys Pierce sends would be sloppy enough for Bucky to catch them, probably, but it eases his mind a little to check.

But only a little.

Steve doesn't stay home all day, surely, so what happens if someone shows up when it's just Sarah? Sarah, who's now carting an oxygen tank around with her, who has to take an afternoon nap, who get daily visits from a hospice nurse. Bucky will never forgive himself if Pierce sends someone to hurt her.

He gets a call from the lead investigator on the case. Honestly, he debates answering it, but it seems like he'll be in more trouble if he doesn't.

“Do you know a man named Brock Rumlow?” The detective asks. Bucky's stomach clenches. Oh, he knows Rumlow.

“Um.” He stumbles over his answer a little. “Yeah. He was one of Pierce's security guys.”

“Was there more to that relationship?”

Bucky can feel his cheeks getting hot, even though the detective can't see. “Well.” He coughs. “He, um, he wanted there to be. I...I _did_ go out on a date with him once. But we didn't—it wasn't...he got real mad about me turning him down.”

There's a bit of silence and Bucky wonders if he's just somehow made himself look guilty. He's sort of understating it—Rumlow had thrown a heavy candlestick at Bucky's head when Bucky wouldn't sleep with him. It didn't exactly change Bucky's mind.

“I meant the relationship between Rumlow and Pierce,” the detective says awkwardly.

“Oh.” Bucky feels intensely, horrifyingly embarrassed. The conversation's being _recorded_. He hopes this doesn't end up in court. Not that people don't know he's bisexual; it's just really, really awkward. “Uh. Not that I know of?”

The detective's quiet again and Bucky wishes he'd quit doing that. Bucky's nerves are about frayed to the breaking point and this isn't helping.

“Mr. Barnes, we've found some evidence that Rumlow was accepting, ah, other salary from Pierce. As a mercenary. He was recently apprehended and we believe you were the target.”

“Whoa.” Bucky blows out a breath. “Pierce said he would send—” Bucky cuts himself off.

“Mr. Barnes.” The detective's all business now. “We will close the investigation against you if you will agree to testify against Pierce and Rumlow.”

“Well.” Bucky licks his lips. “Look. It's not that I don't want to testify, but...Rumlow can't be the only one, you know? I can take care of myself alright but I got family and I'm not gonna do anything—”

“Rumlow turned over the names of the other mercenaries in Pierce's employ,” the detective interrupts. “We can offer federal marshals to do surveillance around your family's home during the time of the trial.”

Bucky thinks about it for another second, not really sure surveillance is going to cut it, and what if Pierce gets off? They can't protect his family forever, and surely Bucky's parents and Becca and the kids can't all go into witness protection.

“We are not worried about the outcome of this case,” the detective adds, as if sensing Bucky's train of thought.

“Okay,” Bucky breathes. “I'll do it.”

They talk more about paper work, things Bucky has to sign for the agreement to be binding, and he hangs up and slumps against the wall. He knows his parents will be proud but worried. And for some reason, Bucky just wants to tell Steve and see his slow smile to tell Bucky he's doing the right thing.

 

It's late May when Bucky wakes up to the sound of sirens turning down their street. He blinks awake and then his heart freezes because he knows. _Sarah_.

He tears down the stairs and sees his mom in her faded bathrobe looking out the window, a hand over her mouth. He gives her a squeeze around the waist but doesn't otherwise pause, just rushes out the door and sprints down the street barefoot and boxer-clad. He hurdles a hedge and bursts in the door and there's Steve, standing in the middle of the living room, face white as a sheet, while paramedics move past him to go down the hall. Bucky doesn't care if everything's fucked between them right now—this is the worst thing and he's not going to leave Steve to drown.

“Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, crossing the room to go to him. Steve spreads his arms out, unsure what to do with himself, and Bucky pulls him in close.

“My ma, Buck,” Steve whispers.

“I know, Stevie, I know.” Bucky leads Steve to the kitchen and sits him down in a kitchen chair. Steve sags, wrapping his arms around Bucky's waist and resting his face against Bucky's stomach and all Bucky can do is run his fingers through Steve's hair and let him hold on tight.

“Sir?” One of the paramedics comes in to find Steve and Steve lifts his face from Bucky's stomach but doesn't move his arms. “Could you excuse us?” She asks Bucky. Steve's arms tighten around Bucky and Bucky pets his hair again.

“It's okay, Steve, I'm not going anywhere,” Bucky promises. “Not without you.”

The paramedic talks, telling Steve his mother's dead and what they're going to do with her body and asking if Steve wants them to do an autopsy and Steve just stares blankly.

“I don't think an autopsy's necessary,” Bucky says softly. “Unless you want it, Stevie.”

“Um, she has cancer,” Steve mumbles. “Had.” Bucky squeezes the back of Steve's neck. The hospice nurse shows up and takes over talking to the paramedics for a bit, and then suddenly all the commotion ends and everyone leaves and Steve and Bucky are alone in the kitchen, clutching each other. Bucky pulls Steve to his feet.

“Come on,” he says. “We're going to my house. You shouldn't stay here tonight.”

“I should—I need to call my aunt and tell her.”

“In the morning, Steve,” Bucky insists gently. “Come with me.”

Steve does so obediently, and then they're both walking into Bucky's kitchen barefoot and disheveled. Winifred's still in the kitchen, but George is up with her now, holding her hand tight, and she's got two mugs of hot chocolate sitting on the table waiting for Steve and Bucky.

When they walk in, Winifred quickly stands and gathers Steve into her arms, holding him tight. She kisses his forehead and murmurs in his ear and he nods, that blank look still on his face. He gets through about two sips before Bucky can tell he's panicking, so Bucky stands and takes Steve's hand and leads him up the stairs. He bundles Steve into the bed and nestles in beside him, foreheads together and arms wrapped around each other's waists, and Steve's breathing starts to hitch and stutter.

“Don't try to be a tough guy and hold it in,” Bucky admonishes, watery himself. Steve manages a trembling smile.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Steve asks in a small voice. “Me being here.”

“Stevie,” Bucky sighs and pulls Steve closer. “I'm taking care of you.”

“But are you gonna regret it in the morning?” Maybe Steve doesn't remember Bucky asking him that seven years ago, in this same room. But then Bucky looks at Steve's face. Steve remembers. Bucky licks his lips.

“Never gonna regret it,” Bucky promises, stealing Steve's line. He'd been bitter about that for a long time—Steve had promised he wouldn't regret it, but he wasn't even there when Bucky woke up. He kisses Steve's forehead and reaches a hand up to rub the back of Steve's neck. “Try to sleep.”

They're quiet a long time, breathing together, and just as Bucky's drifting off, he hears Steve whisper against his neck, “I didn't lie, Buck. I never regretted it.”

 

Bucky doesn't wake up alone this time. Steve's awake already, raised up onto one elbow, looking down at him, and he gives Bucky a soft smile when he sees Bucky's eyes open.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Bucky says back, feeling almost shy. “You sleep at all?”

Steve shrugs. “Some.” Which means hardly any. Bucky bites his lip, deliberating, and then stretches out an arm to pull Steve in. Steve complies instantly, snuggling in and pressing his face in the crook of Bucky's neck. Bucky rests his head on top of Steve's. Steve still smells the same. Isn't that strange? Seven years and his scent hasn't changed. He must use the same deodorant still.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Mm?”

“Can I tell you why I left?”

Bucky tenses instantly. “I don't really think now's the best time, Steve.”

“Buck.” Steve pulls back so he can look Bucky in the eye. “I want to tell you. Right now.”

Bucky sighs. He can't exactly say no, can he? “Fine.” He pulls his arms away from Steve and burrows into the blanket like it'll protect him.

“So. Um. Obviously you remember what happened. With the drinking.”

“You were drunk.” Bucky says dully. “You didn't know what you were doing. You—”

Steve puts a hand over Bucky's mouth to shut him up. Bucky licks him and Steve gives him a look. “Stop. That's not where I was going. I know I told you I loved you. And I told you that because...I did. I _do_ , Buck. But I woke up and I really thought about what happened and you were already enlisted, and I was in West Point, and—and I couldn't mess up your life like that. You could've been dishonorably discharged, Buck, and I knew it. And yeah, _I_ could've been, too. So I freaked out. And...well, I ran.”

Bucky looks at him for a long time. “You don't run from fights, though,” Bucky reminds him in a small voice. “That's your thing, Steve. You don't run.”

“I'm sorry.” Steve's biting his lip, but he's looking Bucky straight in the eye and not backing down this time.

“So,” Bucky starts slowly. “I don't really know what you're getting at.”

“I'm not getting at anything,” Steve promises. “A few days ago, Ma asked what happened. Why we stopped—so I told her. And she made me promise I'd apologize to you and tell you what happened. Because you didn't deserve what I did and I still think my mom loves you better.” Steve gives Bucky a shaky, teary little smile as he brings up their life-long argument. “I owed it to you to tell you. And you don't owe me anything.”

Bucky stares at Steve for a minute, taking in the way his short hair is trying its hardest to stick up in the back, the red of his eyes from a night of not sleeping and crying, the stubble on his chin, the lines around his eyes that he didn't have before.

“I missed you so bad, Buck,” Steve whispers. Bucky sucks in a breath. He's spent the last seven years missing Steve like a physical ache. Sure, he'd dated other people, but he didn't just miss Steve in that way—he'd been missing Steve in _every_ way. His best friend, the person who knew him best and always had his back. And here he is, lying in Bucky's bed and telling him he missed him, too, and Bucky has to close his eyes for a second because it's all so overwhelming.

When he opens his eyes, Steve's face is downcast. Those ridiculously long lashes are practically sweeping his cheeks and Bucky can't take it anymore. He surges forward and kisses Steve. Steve makes a muffled sound of surprise but throws himself wholeheartedly into it.

Bucky reluctantly pulls back two, three, four kisses later. “Steve, hang on,” he pants. “I just really don't know if this is a good time for all this. I mean, your mom...are you thinking straight?”

“Obviously I'm not thinking _straight_ ,” Steve cracks and Bucky groans at his terrible pun. “I'm so sure about this, Buck.” He sobers up. “I can't think of anything Ma would've been happier about. I let seven years get wasted when we could've had each other. I don't want to wait another second.”

And then Bucky can't keep the smile off his face, even after they get back to kissing. They're going to have to get up and face reality. They're going to have to make funeral arrangements for Sarah, call around and let people know, let her go. Bucky's going to have to go to court and testify. They're _both_ going to have to find jobs. But for now, they're going to lie in bed and kiss lazily and hang on tightly to each other.


End file.
